Finding Solace
by Aelfwen
Summary: The loss of the Anchor is nowhere near as painful as her lover's betrayal. As the Inquisition disbands, its Inquisitor wonders where she fits in the new, chaotic puzzle, and decides to seize her destiny as best she can with her remaining hand. (Post-Trespasser. Rated M for eventual language, violence, suggestive themes.)
1. Sorrow

Author's Note: This fic will primarily be an exploration of what Inquisitor Lavellan decides to do after Trespasser. It will also occasionally flashback to unseen moments between her and Solas. Anticipate angst, but also fluff and adventure.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Sorrow**

"_I must tell you something."_

_Her eyes stared through him. Expectant, full of utmost trust. A trust misplaced. For all her guile and insight, she was but a child. He was the deceiver, full of vague stories and smoke. But could he not share his greatest burden with the one person who might, if not understand, accept it? Could he not find comfort in the one who had changed everything by remaining the same?_

_He faltered, and that was all it took. His soul wavered for an instant and in that moment, he knew that he could not reveal the truth about his nature. He told a different truth. _

_Is that not the same as telling a lie?_

He brushed the memory from his mind like a cobweb. He liked to think he did, at least. The night air was languid and heavy on his face. The Brecilian Forest was quiet tonight, waiting with bated breath as Fen'Harel graced it with his presence. He trudged through the underbrush in a slow, methodical manner, brown and dry needles crackling softly. He pushed aside a pine bough, his hand sparking green in the dark.

He had to go back. He had to bring them back.

_The magic tingled across her skin. It felt similar to her mark - nerves charged and white-hot but not quite burning. It was ancient magic. She felt its elven thrum, whispering to her across the Void, pulsing through his gentle fingers as the blue-green light washed over her face, washed her face away._

"_You are so beautiful."_

_Then his heart broke in his eyes, she _saw _it, he blinked and it was gone, _he _was gone, his hands no longer held hers, he turned away — _

"Inquisitor?"

Elyra blinked, her cheeks burning as she returned to the present. Her advisors watched her, their faces carefully blank. She tightened her grip on the edge of the table, her knuckles taut and white. The whispers abated. "Apologies. You were saying, Cassandra?"

Cassandra did not miss a beat. "Your final mission reports," she said, handing Elyra a parcel of documents. "Most everything has gone smoothly."

"_Solas—" her voice broke. "I love you."_

"Her Holiness has returned to Val Royeaux," Josephine remarked, never failing to be sunny. "The Chantry delegacy has arrived in the past week for the ceremony, as she promised. "

_His eyes found hers again. They were beautiful. "In another world—"_

Cullen cleared his throat. "The bulk of the Qunari have fled from Orlais, and our forces are taking care of any violent stragglers. But truly, with the dominant threat of invasion resolved, plans to disband can move forward."

The Inquisitor nodded wordlessly, clutching the package to her chest awkwardly with her right hand. "Thank you. Dismissed," she managed before turning on a heel and walking from the room. Her ears were still burning with embarrassment. She decided to read the missives in her quarters; perhaps privacy would be a blessing. The _vir'abelasan_ resumed its whispers.

The room was quiet and forlorn without her presence, despite the warm afternoon sun that filtered through the stained glass and formed colorful puddles on the floor. The three remaining advisors looked at each other, then away. Cassandra's jaw worked and she paced to the window. "Has her speech been written?"

"Parts of it," Josie said. She combed through the papers on her lectern. "I'm uncertain which direction to take it - hopeful and optimistic? Realistic and stoic? The Inquisitor has not been very forthcoming on that front. Understandably."

Cassandra snorted. "If I were her, I would greatly desire not to speak at all." After a moment, she returned to the table with a righteous scowl settled on her noble features.

Josephine's lips turned down as her mask dropped. "Honestly? I feel the same way." She began scribbling something on her lectern board. Cullen peered over her shoulder and saw it was a doodle of what seemed to be herself punching a bald elf in the head. He desperately resisted the urge to laugh.

Without any warning, Cassandra punched the war table, letting out an angry sound. "I'll kill him!" Josie snapped the quill nib she held to paper, brows knitted at Cassandra's outburst. Cullen touched a calming hand to her shoulder, and she sighed, and her scowl mellowed to a grimace.

"The Inquisitor did what was best for the Inquisition," Cullen told them. "She clearly felt that under no circumstances was it to fall under the Chantry's control. I can't say I disagree with that decision." Despite his placid face, Cassandra believed the flatness of his gaze betrayed his feelings. They had never seen her like this - distracted, unreadable, absent. She had always burned bright, a sun for all of them. After _his_ sudden return and immediate betrayal, she faltered and dimmed.

"I don't care about the Inquisition!" The words might have scandalized a person less familiar with Cassandra, but her fellow advisors knew exactly what she meant. "She is a blessing to all of us. She _bettered_ all of us. And he just––" Cassandra swept her hand through the air. She looked at the door through which Elyra had retreated. "We need to do something. I'm going to talk to her."

Cullen grasped her forearm as she turned to leave. "She needs to heal on her own time. I doubt she would appreciate––"

"Then _you_ talk to her, if you understand her so well!" She snapped, pulling her arm from his hand and stalking out. Cullen stared her retreating figure, brows raised at her outburst.

Josephine shook her head sadly and sighed. "It wouldn't hurt to try," she told Cullen, patting his hand. His lips thinned – not quite a smile, but something.

* * *

Her room was quieter, but in the quiet, the whispers only grew louder. She was better able to pick things out from the muck of voices in her mind, and in the past two and a half years, ignoring them became easier. Today, the strongest word surfacing from the Well of Sorrows was _harellan, _or _harillen_, or maybe even _hellathen _\- deception, or a noble struggle? Truly, it was mocking her at this point. He'd been very clear - do not drink it. And she, the foolish Dalish pretender, had sipped from it like it was tasty mead.

She sat at her desk, staring at the pile of Elvish books on the corner before looking away, almost ashamed, as she picked through the packet Cassandra had given her. She was pleased to read that her clan remained safe and whole, and Deshanna still posessed a seat on Wycome's city council. She was beyond relieved, even a bit shocked, that they had gotten away unscathed in the turmoil and corruption in Wycome. The Free Marches' city-states were falling apart faster than she could count - some worse than others.

Cullen had once recounted the horrors of Kirkwall and his time in the Ferelden Circle of Magi. She shuddered. What a dreadful place it must have been. He had gone through far too much for a man as young as he was. She mentally blessed him for his outstanding service, wondering if she should send him a medal. Or a fruit basket. She made another mental note to ask Josephine what would be most appropriate.

But, back to her clan - even more astonishing was the news that Keeper Deshanna was now in the running to become Wycome's seneschal. Elyra could easily imagine the furious gossiping amongst the Orlesian courtiers. _A wild Dalish elf in high standing amongst the human merchants and low nobility? How scandalous!_

_Deliciously so_, Elyra mused. Indeed, she had learned from her foyer into the depths of Orlesian politics that scandal came in all shapes and tastes. Perhaps some would quake in their boots or faint into their cushy chaises at the thought of yet _another_ elf ascending the ladder of authority, but most would delight in the pure _wickedness_ of it.

Elven leadership wasn't without precedent. In Elyra's pastime research on the Hero of Ferelden, she'd learned the elven Grey Warden had briefly been the Arl of Amaranthine. Although, that arrangement was admittedly quite different from what her clan dealt with in Wycome. Ferelden had positively fallen over itself to gift away the arling of traitorous Rendon Howe, whereas her entire clan had to scrape by in Wycome before all the corruption came to light.

Her trail of thought stopped short when she remembered, rather belatedly, that she led what some might call the most influential institution in southern Thedas. She laughed to herself - being the premier example of an elf in charge was sometimes easy to forget when half her time was spent trudging through the countryside, usually filthy and exhausted, trying to solve random problems.

Elyra was bursting with pride. In that moment, she forgot about her bare face. She was fiercely proud to call herself a member of clan Lavellan.

The rest of the reports were simpler in nature - gold cycled through their coffers at a decent pace, the patrols on the Storm Coast dealt with any Qunari turned Tal-Vashoth, pilgrims continued pouring through Skyhold's gates to witness the end of the Inquisition, and elves were disappearing.

Wait. That last one was different. Elyra's heart seemed to convulse as she peeled the last of Leliana's correspondence open once more.

_Alienages across Thedas are emptying, even here in Val Royeaux it's become apparent, but my spies report losing track of them once they leave city outskirts. Apparently, they are not traveling on main thoroughfares, nor the Imperial Highway. What is perhaps more concerning: entire Dalish clans have begun disappearing. Take care, Inquisitor - it seems our mutual friend is gathering reinforcements._

She read the note twice, then a third time. There was an iron fist with a tight grip on her heart, squeezing it till it felt fit to burst. She wished it _would _burst. She was humiliated. She had let him take her face away, naively believing that he would explain himself or at least _something_, and then he had left. And when she'd found him again, his betrayal became absolute. For all intents and purposes, he was a power-blind supremacist, reaching for godhood just like Corypheus.

And yet, he'd saved her life.

_I want you to know that what we had was real_.

She gritted her teeth, groaned, and let her head lightly thump against her desk. Keeper Deshanna had always chided Elyra on her romantic inclinations. She had always ignored her, but she supposed this was the fruit of her predictions, miserable as they were. Her emboldened, all-encompassing optimism, seeping into every aspect of her life like a well-meaning poison. And what did it get her? A missing hand, a wounded heart, and an embittered outlook on the future, despite all her success.

In the past three years, she raised an army, a nation, a religion. She defeated a legend and thus became one. She fell deeply in love, she gave away her entirety, and she was utterly convinced he returned that sentiment. And despite that - rather, _in _spite of that, he left. _Again_.

She wasn't necessarily heartbroken. That was something she could deal with. She was _embarrassed_. Despite all she had done, he had walked away as though it was nothing. As though _she _was nothing. As though all they'd been through, everything they saw and achieved - none of it mattered in his grand scheme. And that infuriated her.

She could feel the tendrils of pride searching for a weak spot in her armor, snakelike and subtle. _No_, she thought. _You will not have me_. Her connection to the Fade, strong before the Anchor, was even more sensitive since its abrupt removal. Her left hand itched. She did not look down at the space it no longer occupied.

She felt paper-thin, and could sense the demons lurking. She would _not_ let them in. No matter the cost.

_Harillen, harellan, hellathen_. Her nose pressed against the cool wood grain, and her eyes blurred with tears. _Leave me be, just for a while, _she begged.

One more voice whispered: _Ir abelas, ma vhenan._

* * *

AN: The angst will dissipate, I promise! If you felt strongly about this, good or bad, PM me or review! I'd love to know what you think. This will be a multi-chapter extravaganza, so buckle in and hold onto your butts! Planning to post weekly. We'll see how long that lasts ;)


	2. Empathy

**Chapter 2: Empathy**

Cullen's bare knuckles hovered above the Inquisitor's door with an uncertainty rarely seen in the hardened general.

When they had first met, he had found her unusual and, likely because of this, suspicious. The "Herald of Andraste" was a Dalish elf without a whit of knowledge regarding the Maker or his Holy Bride. An elf whose only religious devotion seemed to be the science of magic, much like an elf he'd known long ago.

As she rose through the ranks, he came to respect and even admire her. When she ascended to the position of Inquisitor, he felt she was the only one for the job.

Watching her ascent to power was what made this so difficult. She had become less a person, more a concept. A _legend_. Speaking with her on a daily basis and seeing her around Skyhold's halls relaxed this image quite a lot, but even then, her deeds spoke louder than mere words.

Simply put, Elyra intimidated Cullen. He found that he was _nervous_ to speak with her, particularly on this delicate matter. Even though he considered her one of his dearest friends.

He knocked anyway.

He shifted from foot to foot, anxious. There was a rustle of paper, a thump and a bitten curse - "Elgar'nan's great swinging balls" - and finally, "Come in."

Upon opening the door, he saw the Inquisitor tidying her desk. One of her cheeks was red and marked with the brocaded paisley pattern of her sleeve's fabric. She was smoothing out the papers she'd fallen asleep on, slightly dazed. Already, she seemed less immortal. He relaxed a bit, exhaling.

Looking up, her face immediately brightened. "Cullen!" She half-stood, gesturing to one of the chairs before her desk. "Please, sit." A sheaf of papers fell to the floor, and she reached for them with her left arm - then grimaced, her remaining hand going to the stump at her elbow.

Without missing a beat, Cullen wordlessly stooped and returned them to her desk. "Thank you, Inquisitor." He sat. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

She shrugged, smiling a little sheepishly. "I forgive you. Please, call me Elyra. I won't be the Inquisitor for much longer, gods willing." Then she sighed, lolling her head forward slightly, a group of curls falling from behind her leaflike ear. "I assume you're here to talk about my… lack of presence as of late?"

He grudgingly appreciated her ability to jump straight to the heart of the matter. "Not specifically. I simply wanted to ask: how are you? You so often ask us that, and we rarely return the favor."

Elyra felt warmth burgeon in her chest. The despair demon that lurked in the corner melted away in the face of such compassion. "I... normally I would brush that off. But now..." she stood and approached the balcony. Cullen joined her, looking out over Skyhold.

The courtyard was bustling with people. It was a mass exodus. Word had spread quickly of the decision at the Exalted Council, and the Inquisition's people were readying for the return home. Although she was saddened by its end, there was a certain sweet relief in no longer being the Inquisitor. She had commanded thousands, and now they dissipated like seeds in the wind. Given the revelations she'd received from Solas just a month ago, she was certain disbanding was ideal. No doubt many felt the same.

"I'm very tired," she said, glancing at Cullen. "I do not regret my decision, but I'm afraid of what's to come. Solas..." she all but choked on his name. "He is potentially a greater threat than Corypheus ever was. And he was among us the whole time. Did you know that his name—" _Fen'Harel, his name is Fen'Harel _"— it means _pride_."

She opened her mouth to speak again, then closed it, lips pursed and brow furrowed. It seemed like she had more to say, so Cullen waited a few heartbeats. He noted a young priest asking Mother Giselle for benediction in the garden below.

"I love him, and I am more the fool for it," she whispered. Cullen looked at her sharply. "I'm furious with myself."

"No," Cullen said, and she turned from the crowd below to look up at him. "We were all fooled. No doubt Solas - or whatever his true name is - intended that from the start." He sighed, "but do not discredit your feelings. It was obvious to all who saw you together that he cared deeply for you." Cullen recalled a time he found himself staring in awe at the massive, richly detailed murals adorning the walls of Solas's study - the elf was often hard at work with the paints. In each one, Elyra stood at the center. "No doubt against his better judgement."

Elyra mulled over his words in silence. Looking up, she noticed the Despair demon sulking in the shadowed corner of her room had left. Ever since Solas took the Anchor, she could sometimes see glimpses of _over there. _Across the Veil. It felt like looking through a keyhole. And it was unnerving every time.

Finally, she said, "I can't wish to change everything, but that's all I want to do. There's so much I see now, looking back - how he knew what he knew, the secrecy, the power, the reluctance to divulge—" she cut short. "It's frustrating because it makes so much sense. Do you know what's most aggravating?" She didn't wait for Cullen to respond before slamming her palm down on the railing, "He never really _lied _to us—to me. I just never asked the right questions."

"That path of thought is madness." She looked at him and saw half-hidden regret. She remembered what he'd told her about Kirkwall's knight-commander. "The strategist in me sees the good in what you two shared - we learned more than he ever wanted to let on about himself because you inexplicably drew it from him."

She surveyed the people, thinking over his words for a few moments. "Cullen, you're not only a sage, but an optimist as well? What else have you been hiding?" She pressed her sore palm to her chest ruefully, half-smiling at him.

He allowed himself to grin. "Don't go telling everyone. My reputation would be in tatters."

"I hope it recovered after that legendary game of Wicked Grace. Did you ever get your knickers back from Josephine?"

Cullen groaned and slid a hand over his reddening face. "That was almost _three years _ago."

She laughed, and looked surprised to have done so. Down below, a soldier in the courtyard looked up and spotted them. "Your Worship!" He shouted, saluting. Dozens other heads snapped to look, and a burbling cheer rose. A young girl waved madly from her father's shoulders. Elyra waved back, heart clenching.

"I have to say goodbye to them - to it all - tomorrow. I was sad at first, but all I feel now is relief. Is that a bad thing?"

"Not in the slightest." She glanced at Cullen. He understood. He may have even felt the same. He contemplated the crowd for moment. "If you're not too busy this evening, you should come to the tavern. I believe we're all having a drink or two - for old times' sake." He smiled at her again, warm and kind. A good friend. "Maker knows we could use some rest."

Elyra smiled back. "I'd like that very much."

"Excellent. Inquisitor," He inclined his head, turned on a heel and left her quarters. He was thrilled that she'd join him and the other advisors. They owed her a thousand ales. It was the least they could do. He had a slight spring to his step as he closed the door to her quarters behind him.

She waited five seconds after hearing the door close before she sighed long, a weight peeling away from her shoulders like an old scab. "Maker -" she stopped short. She rarely prayed to the human god, but after all she'd learned and been through, her mind was more open than a broken gate. Plus, her own gods had been all but debunked by her former lover who was actually one of those so-called gods himself—_no, _she told herself sternly. _You're not going to wallow. You're going to pray._

"Maker, I just wanted to say—thank you!" She blurted, gripping the railing tightly. "Mother Giselle was right. I'm blessed. Just not in the way she thought. If I did not have the friends You seem to have given me, I would not still be here. Despite my failings, Thedas is relatively safe, for the time being. So... _ma serannas_," she finished lamely.

Leliana would have approved of that. Simple and to the point. Elyra returned to her desk and pulled a small blank parchment note from a drawer. She pondered her words as she dipped her quill in the inkwell. _Best to be straightforward, _she supposed. She propped what remained of her left arm on the small pillow Cole had given her. Without a second thought, she began writing.

_Dareth shiral, Keeper Deshanna._


	3. Joy

**Chapter 3: Joy**

At dusk, Elyra found herself at the door to the Herald's Rest. She gripped the handle to enter, and hesitated. Despite Cullen's encouragement, it was hard not to feel like a disappointment to all, especially those she held dear.

"You're here," Cole said from directly behind her, and she violently jerked the door handle in fright. It creaked open a bit, spilling orange firelight and the sounds of merriment into the empty practice yard.

"Andraste's rosebuds, Cole! I will _never _get used to that." She eyed him with reproach, but upon seeing the massive smile on his face, she couldn't help grinning back.

The spirit of Dejection curling its tendrils toward Elyra's leg shrank back into the earth as Cole's foot came down where its head had been. Thankfully, she hadn't noticed it. _Leave her alone_, he intoned forcefully. The spirit dissipated.

"Dorian told me that's one of the worst curses you can use, but what's so bad about rosebuds? They're pretty," he wondered aloud, and it shocked a chortle from the Inquisitor.

"It is not!" They walked into the tavern together.

"I suppose it depends on how comfortable one's country is with nudity!" The Tevinter mage's rich tenor tones carried over the bustling clamor of the packed tavern. He sat with Cullen, Cassandra, Josephine - and the Iron Bull, of course.

"What does nudity have anything to do—" then Elyra actually registered them, and her face was overcome with a caricature of surprise. "Dorian—Bull?! You're here," was all she could manage.

Iron Bull handed her a pint spilling over with ale, his eye glinting with untold mischief. "Obviously. You really thought we'd miss the big goodbye, boss?"

"Don't get your panties in a bunch about it, all-touched Lady Herald!" Looking up, she spotted Sera and Dagna grinning maniacally from the upper floor. Blackwall nodded from beside them, content with letting the others pester her.

"For once, I must agree with Sera, my darling," Vivienne remarked from her station at a nearby pillar, swirling a stemmed glass of undoubtedly fine wine.

"I swear it wasn't my idea — and I'm normally the first to go for this kind of thing." Varric emerged from behind the fireplace, sleek in gray and scarlet raiment, chest hair unabashedly on display.

Elyra, jaw on the ground, looked all around and finally her eyes landed on her advisors. Cullen was deceptively serene, the only giveaway a small quirk in the corner of his mouth. Cassandra was terrible at keeping a straight face, her customary scowl flickering as she resisted the urge to smile. And Josephine unashamedly looked like a cat with cream, or exquisitely fresh tuna.

"You!" Elyra exclaimed, jabbing Cullen in the chest with a finger as she glared at the three. "I can't believe it, my most trusted advisors—" a small smile cracked through her mock anger. "How?!"

"It was not so hard, my lady," Josephine purred smugly.

"They simply followed us home from Halamshiral," Cassandra added. "They know the way, after all."

"I blame Leliana, mostly," Cullen said, smiling back at her.

Elyra stared at them for a long moment. Then, shaking her head, face alight with joy, she said, "There is nothing I could say that would convey what I feel. But at the very least... thank you."

It was then she noticed that the tavern had gone a bit quiet, and looking around she realized people had noticed _her_. If they'd been sitting, they were standing now. There were awed and worshipful faces, slightly tearful ones, and the occasional blessed lack of recognition. Above all, they seemed expectant.

She moved toward the center of the floor, took a massive swig of her ale, then cleared her throat. "You'll hear my full speech tomorrow. But what I can say tonight is this: I am in your debt." Her voice rang clear and bright, a blue knife cutting through the lingering whispers. The tavern was now hushed, all ears and eyes turned to the Inquisitor on the last night she would be so.

"We have become a force to be reckoned with, thanks in large part to your incredible skills and sacrifices." She saw Sutherland and his crew, Scout Harding, Flissa, Harritt, and countless others threaded through the crowd. "Although we part ways tomorrow, we will eternally be bound to one another, through love and friendship and brotherhood." She saw Cole lay a hand on Varric's shoulder, Dorian and Iron Bull sharing a glance. "Remember each other. Beyond today, we may be thousands of leagues apart, but we will always be together." She pressed her mug to her chest. "Here." Josephine looked away, hiding misty eyes.

"But as for tonight?" She raised her mug high, slopping a good amount of ale on the floor. She mustered her best smile. "Tonight, we celebrate!"

A raucous cheer went up. Ale rained from the rafters as people knocked their tankards together all too enthusiastically. "And I'll drink to that!" Iron Bull shouted, chugging the rest of his beer.

"Maryden, would you sing us a song?" Cole asked, and Elyra could have sworn the minstrel blushed.

"Why, of course! I think I have just the one." She stood, lute on her hip. She plucked at it experimentally before settling on a raucous inversion of _Inquisitor_.

_They're soldiers and saviors,_

_Heroes and healers,_

_The Inquisition fights for us all..._


	4. Nostalgia

**Chapter 4: Nostalgia**

_Snow glittered gold in the young sunlight cresting the mountains, and any left in shadow was pale blue. Solas used his staff to chart a path in the deep powder, weaving slowly through the still pines. It was early enough that the soldiers had not yet begun training, but late enough for the hunters to have gone out for game. He saw one such trail, two sets of prints - a ram's and a man's. _

_Suddenly, he discerned a faint voice in the sleepy dawn. He grew still, focusing._

_"_Lath sulevin, lath araval ena_..." The lilting voice was clear yet soft, like a gossamer veil. An elf? Solas wondered. There was only one person he knew from Haven who might have such a grasp on Elvish._

_He stepped past the line of trees into a small clearing against a cliff, occupied by none other than Elyra Lavellan, who sat with her legs folded neatly beneath her. Before her was a cluster of wooden figures, arranged like a shrine on the natural ledges of the rock face. Magical wisps of light glimmered weakly among them._

_Sensing someone else there, she faltered and turned. "Solas?" She sounded surprised. With her concentration broken, the wisps fizzled from existence. She stood and brushed the snow from her deerskin leggings, a lock of hair falling loose around her face. "Is something wrong?"_

_He realized his brow was furrowed, and quickly smoothed his features. "Not at all, I was simply out for a morning walk. I hope I haven't disturbed you."_

_Her brows lifted slightly. "Not at all," she replied with a hint of sarcasm. _Ah, _he thought. _Either she doesn't believe me, or I did irritate her_. He endeavored to hide his tracks — and true feelings — better in the future._

_He stepped closer to inspect the statuettes. They were carved from silvery ironbark and polished to a fine sheen. A hare, a halla, an owl, a raven, a dragon. An anvil, a wheel, a rayed sun. And near Elyra, a small wolf sat in the snow, turned away from the others. He briefly entertained knocking them all away. "A Dalish practice, I assume?" He asked._

_"Yes—well, mostly a Keeper's duty," she said. "We lead the prayer rites in worshipping the elven gods." She gestured to the figures, looking at him curiously. "Do you know any of them?"_

_He had to tread carefully here. "This is Mythal, is it not?" He brushed his fingers over the smooth wings of the dragon figure._

_"Indeed." She sounded pleased, if a little surprised. She touched a hand to her cheek, fingers running over the crisp lines of her vallaslin. "I chose Mythal in my blood writing ceremony. In many legends she is described as a dragon, a being of pure strength and ferocity while dispensing her justice. But there are other tales where she takes the shape of a tree — merciful, giving life and shade from the Vengeful Sun in equal measure."_

_Solas felt a severe pang in his heart. He closed his eyes to mask his thoughts. The description was closer than Elyra could possibly know. The Dalish were not completely lost, even if the "history" they kept was often trite._

_"These figures are well made," he remarked, face pleasantly blank._

_She puffed with a little pride at the compliment and stepped beside him, running a gentle hand over the halla. "My clan's craftsman made them for me, as a gift for when I became the First. They're simplistic, but serve their intended purpose splendidly." Her smile fell, then. "It's unfortunate I won't be able to do so."_

_"Meaning?"_

_She stared at nothing, brow knitted. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, knuckles white. He could see the green flicker of the mark through her clenched fingers. "I will likely not become Keeper. It's something I've been training for since I was young. It's... difficult, to discard one's lifelong purpose."_

_Solas said nothing at first, watching her face intently. "The gods operate in mysterious ways. Is it possible that becoming Keeper was never your intended purpose?" Her eyes snapped towards him, blazing._

_"This," she held her up her hand, palm open. The Anchor shimmered with an opalescent sheen. This close, he could almost see the Fade through it. "This was a fluke. If I didn't have this, I'd be back in the Free Marches preparing for the Arlathvhen with my clan. I'd probably be getting bonding proposals and listening to the Way of the Three Trees for the millionth time. I wouldn't be called the gods-forsaken Herald of Andraste." She broke eye contact to glare at the figurines and folded her arms, effectively putting the mark away._

_"Bonding proposals," Solas said slowly, his brows raised. "That's what you want? Forgive me, but I can't see you settling down any time soon."_

_Her broody facade thawed slightly. "Well, I wouldn't necessarily accept. But you have to admit the idea is nice. To have the freedom, the choice…" she trailed off. "That's what I miss."_

_"I can't disagree with that," he said. "It's not the easiest thing, being an elven apostate in the midst of Chantry zealots."_

_She snorted. "If I were human, this would be much easier. I'd probably even like the attention."_

_He smirked. "I think you already like it." She narrowed her eyes at him, but he continued. "You'd make a poor human, anyway. Too rebellious."_

_"Andraste was rebellious," she retorted. "Maybe that makes me the perfect Herald - and heretical elf and a mage, to boot." That surprised a chuckle out of him. She smiled a bit._

_"You've been taking advantage of the Chantry's library, then?"_

_She glanced at him sidelong. "When I'm able, yes. They have an impressive collection of historical texts here - I can't lie, it's been helpful. When I'm not reading or gallivanting about southern Ferelden with you three, I'm here." She returned her gaze to the figurines. _

_"Small comforts," he murmured, and she nodded wordlessly._

_After a beat, Elyra looked back to him. "Solas, would you… I'd like to finish the song. You're welcome to stay…" She trailed off uncertainly._

_He felt a bit foolish. The Dalish rites meant less than nothing to him. They reminded him of a place that he'd sought to dismantle, and they recounted it poorly, at best. And yet… the song she sang was indeed a small comfort. A chance to hear the voice of his people again, even if it was out of context. He tried asking himself why he felt conflicted about declining her, and found he couldn't answer._

_In his silence, she seemed to think he disapproved her invitation and began to backpedal. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to–"_

_He held up a hand. "I would stay," he said gently, and stepped closer. The wind had picked up, and loose snow blew by them softly._

_A true smile lit up her face. She cleared her throat and lifted her hands. At once, the wisp lights reappeared to dance in the stone alcoves._

_Her voice halted at first, unused to the company, but soon it was clear and strong again._

Arla ven tu vir mahvir,

melana 'nehn,

enasal ir sa lethalin

_It was a song of both loss and hope. Despite his initial cynicism, Solas was moved. He looked to her, hoping to thank her, but remained silent when he saw the unshed tears in her eyes. Rather than say anything, his hand found hers. She blinked, and her tears made tiny holes in the snow. The Anchor buzzed against his palm numbingly, but he didn't mind._


End file.
